Redoomed
by Two and a Half Guys
Summary: Irmo and Námo and subsequent madness; or, the random thoughts of Mike and Ping. A companion piece to Undoomed.
1. Interlude 1: The Second War of Wrath

The Second War of Wrath

 _Update 07.04.18:_  
WE'RE BACK. WE'RE ALIIIIIIIVE. For the most part. Check out the prologue of Undoomed for details!

* * *

It was not a common occurrence for Irmo to be angry, and those who were unlucky enough to find him in such a state most usually did not stay around him long enough to witness his wrath. But today, the Master of Dreams and Desires was adamant that the subject of his anger would not escape today. Oh no, neither _Maia_ nor houseless _fëa_ would keep him from giving Námo a solid piece of his mind.

Even the silencing stones of the Halls were unable to muffle his anger, the sharp _clacks_ of his footsteps echoing throughout the Houses of the Dead. Occasional _fëar_ watched as he stormed through the grand halls and corridors in search of his sibling, giving him looks of reverence or fear or sometimes even surprise.

"Master Irmo!" called a voice from behind him.

Irmo glanced over his shoulder to see one of his brother's _Maiar_ trailing behind him. It was one he did not recognize, her _fana_ a faceless figure in a hooded white robe. That hood that so resembled his _brother's_...he felt his lips curl in a snarl.

"Master Irmo, might you require assistance?" she queried as she caught up with the longer-limbed _Vala._

"I am searching for your master," Irmo growled. "My brother has done something unacceptable."

If the _Maia_ 's _fana_ had eyes, they would have grown wide at the dream master's tone.

"O-of course, my lord," the _Maia_ stuttered, suddenly regretting her choice to interact with her master's brother. "I am…fairly certain he is this way."

The _Maia_ led Irmo down a hall and, despite her lack of corporeal eyes, felt herself tearing up. After all, things would not likely end well if the servant failed to find her master promptly...but her poor master, though.

 _I apologize, Master Námo, and Eru be with you._

The next corridor was lined with numerous alcoves and resonated with the Doomsman's characteristically deep whisper.

"Námo!" Irmo snapped, leaving the _Maia_ behind and glancing into each alcove, his midnight blue robes swirling about him.

In the second-to-last niche on the right, a tall figure in black stood now silently with his back to the rest of the hall, the houseless _fëar_ before him preparing to leave.

"Námo, Lord of Mandos and Doomsman of Arda, I would speak with you," the Master of Dreams and Desires hissed as he came to stand behind his elder brother.

For a moment, the sibling _Fëanturi_ were silent and still. The three _fëar_ trembled; if they wanted to leave the tension-filled space, they would have to slip past Irmo first, and his already-imposing figure was now outright menacing.

"Would you?" the Doomsman echoed after some time. He turned to face his younger sibling, a small smile twisting his bloodless lips. "What is it that you wish to discuss, dearest brother? It must be quite important for you to have left your garden and come all the way out here to see me."

"Indeed," the younger spat.

"We should go somewhere where we can discuss things privately, then," the Doomsman whispered, his smile evident in his words. He lifted his chin, his voice raising slightly. "Fuathil?"

"Yes, my lord?" The _Maia_ that had followed Irmo re-appeared and bowed deeply to her master, relieved to see that he was in one piece.

"Please ensure these _fëar_ are shown a place where they can rest comfortably. They have had a rather difficult journey here."

Námo acknowledged her bow with a tilt of his head and glided past his fuming brother, making his way back down the corridor. After several twists and turns through the maze-like fortress of Mandos, they arrived in his private study.

"Tell me, brother dearest," the Doomsman whispered as he gestured to a pair of plush chairs close to the hearth, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter on an end table. "What is it that has you so...riled?"

"Your actions of late are concerning to me, Námo." Irmo paced the room, ignoring the chair, but took the proffered glass of alcohol as he passed. He downed the crimson liquid, then growled deep in his throat and slammed his glass down on the table, normally-calm blue eyes ablaze. The thought-glass shattered with a tinkle, then faded. "What possessed you to send the Sons of Fëanor back to Middle Earth?"

The Lord of Mandos chuckled to himself as he swept into his usual seat, lowering his cowl to reveal his shadowed eyes and Void-black tresses. "Is this what has you so upset? Irmo, my dear, you should not let yourself become so distressed over such a small thing."

"A small thing?" he shot at the Doomsman. "Brother, you _reincarnated the Sons of Fëanor._ In what circle of the world does it make sense for you to do that?"

"In all of them," Námo said instantly. "There exists no being who can deny the skills and determination of those seven."

"Not only that, but you told them that _I_ agreed to this!"

The Doomsman's face knit in thought for a breath before clearing again. "Ah, yes. Non-linear perception of time, my apologies."

"You mean to say that I agreed to—will agree to—" The Master of Dreams and Desires ground his teeth together, then jabbed his finger at his brother. "Nothing good will come of this, mark my words."

"Then at the very least, I can promise you that nothing bad will happen." Námo contemplated the burgundy-hued liquid in his glass. "It is difficult to fathom, Irmo...how trying life will be for the Children of Ilúvatar in the coming age. The Fëanorions will aid them in their turmoil."

"How can you even think that?" Irmo sighed, suddenly drained. He sank into the chair across from his brother. "What good could possibly come of those kinslayers returning to Middle Earth?"

Oh, how the Doomsman longed to spill everything to his brother, to tell him what all he had seen in the future of the Children. It would be bloody and there would be deaths, but the glories that they would achieve would far outweigh the sacrifices that they would make.

Eru would not allow him that luxury, though, and he settled for a wry smile.

"You will have to wait and see," he whispered, sipping at his wine. Irmo placed his head in his hands and groaned.

"What am I to do, Námo?"

"Nothing." With a flutter of his fingers a new glass materialized in them. He handed it to his brother, then unstoppered the decanter and filled the glass, carefully adjusting the wine's composition with his thought as he did so. "It is Eru's will that the Sons of Fëanor be returned to life. There is nothing more to be done."

Irmo leaned back in his chair, brooding. He didn't _want_ to sit by and do nothing as seven of the most notorious murderers of the First Age roamed free in Middle Earth.

"Do not worry over them, brother. They cannot remember the Oath—the Children have nothing to fear from them." The black-clad _Vala_ rose and laid a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Rest here for the night. Perhaps you could wait until the morning to leave for your realm? I am certain Estë is more than capable of tending the garden for one night. Besides, some time away from Lórien will do you good."

The Master of Dreams couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his brother.

"You are always trying to get me away from my work." Námo's pale eyes danced with merriment. "I think it is only fair that I do the same for you."

* * *

 _Notes  
_ Fana: the tangible form that a _Vala_ or _Maia_ will take on in order to interact with the physical world


	2. Interlude 2: Things Forgotten

Things Forgotten

"I thought you fixed it."

Irmo shifted uncomfortably beneath his brother's intense gaze. It wasn't shame he felt so much as it was frustration and more than a bit of helplessness. He _was_ still in Mandos, after all, and at the moment his brother far overpowered him. Before he could open his mouth to defend himself he was hoisted up by his collar.

"Irmo. I. Thought. You. Fixed. _Him_." The Doomsman's lips curled in a snarl as he pulled him close, glaring down at him with pale blue fires. His voice rose above his usual whisper, the entirety of the Halls resounding with his next words. "Explain to me, brother, precisely why he still has those memories, and feel free to explain how you intend for him to stay sane while you're at it."

"I did my best, Námo," the younger growled. They had been watching the Sons of Fëanor through the Doomsman's thoughts for some days now, projected into a large bowl of water in the middle of the room, under Irmo's insistence that they could not be left without supervision. It had all been going smoothly until that blasted nightmare. "He has and continues to shut me out of his mind, and refuses me access. There is only so much I can do externally to make one forget such horrors. Even now he does not allow me to send him dreams to override his nightmares, or I would have already."

Námo's lip curled further. "Then what _can_ you do?"

"Honestly, not much," Irmo snapped back. "Your halls are supposed to be a place of healing for _fëar_ like his before they are re-embodied. If you want the truth, brother, I believe this mess is as much your fault as it is mine. More so, in my opinion."

The Halls dimmed, the torches blazing red, and the liquid darkness of Námo's robes flared. "Say that again," the taller _Vala_ hissed, looming over his younger brother.

Irmo gritted his teeth. "Unlike you, _brother_ , I do not possess foresight. Reassure me, then—what will become of Middle Earth with the Sons of Fëanor there to…'save the day'?"

"A future that is now questionable because of _your_ failure to rid Maedhros Fëanorion of the terrors of his past."

A silence.

"Is...is he truly so indispensable?" the Master of Dreams said quietly.

The taller _Vala_ seemed to slump, his robes settling around him as the Halls brightened to their usual twilight.

"You will have to trust me, brother," Námo whispered.

"...fine."

Another silence.

"So...I assume they learned to curse from you."

"Ah, that...I was dealing with a particularly difficult batch of caramel that day."

"You…were making caramel?"

"Yes. In fact"—he pulled a small tin from his sleeve—"would you care for some?"

Irmo looked at the tin his brother held out, skepticism written all over his face.

"It's the extra-soft kind, brother. Even Vairë enjoys it, and you know she doesn't like sweet things."

"...Námo, you realize she's just being nice."

"Oh." Námo looked sadly down at his tin, then shrugged, flicked it open, and popped a piece into his mouth.

"Námo."

"Do you want a piece?"

"Námo...why is there a black aura around Maedhros Fëanorion?"

The elder of the two _Fëanturi_ looked at his projected thoughts, and his bloodless face hardened, eyes blazing.

"Námo, that can't be…"

"I'm afraid it is."

"I told you that sending them back was a bad idea."

"Yes, well, I didn't take that jewelry-hoarding, makeup-wearing Orc-whisperer into account."

"You'd better now," Irmo said grimly. "And don't give me any more of that 'Void-black is attractive' nonsense. I still think Eonwë should have smote him when he had the chance. He belongs in the Void with his master."

The Doomsman rose, the image disappearing from the bowl of water, and finished the last of his caramel. "Alert Manwë," he said.

Then he sneezed.


End file.
